Pascal and I have known each other since we were 13 and in Hong Kong. When you know someone for a dozen years, you’re not really worried about embarrassing yourself in front of them anymore. He moved to Montreal a couple of years ago and I moved to Ottawa last season, so I like to visit him every now and again.
Pascal is an avid climber and works in a sports store. Mountaineering equipment like headlamps and crampons are hung neatly in a row on a series of hooks on his wall. When he’s not climbing, he enjoys walking to the local grocery store and picking up fresh ingredients to try out new recipes. I made gnocchi with him on my most recent visit.
“We get to buy defective merchandise from the store for a dollar,” Pascal said as he proudly showed me a flashlight he fixed. “But sometimes the stuff isn’t even defective, and you get perfectly good kit for much less.”
We’re alike in more than just a few ways. We both love good food with a bit of beer or wine on the side and we both like a good bargain. I brought my raclette machine with me once so we could share a moment of fellowship in molten cheese and boiled potatoes. We left the beers in the backyard in the snow when his refrigerator ran out of space. Who needs a refrigerator in Quebec anyways?
Every time we had a meal or cooked together we’d work out perfect choreography. If we had raclette, I’d be doing rounds to the fridge to refill cheese and ham while he sat near the backyard door to get cold beer. If we made gnocchi, I’d be rolling and cutting the dough while he shaped and cooked them.
Back when we were 13, Pascal had voluminous curly hair much to the adoration and admiration of most of our female classmates. Now, he’s preparing to join the armed forces and all that’s left of his former mane is several millimeters of stubble. Regardless of his hairstyle I could still spot his radiant smile from a block away, reassuring me that some things, like friendship, never change.
Most of the city, save supermarkets and liquor stores, were closed for New Year’s. Pascal suggested we do some outdoor activities to pass the time and enjoy the soft powdery layer of fresh snow. We each grabbed a sled and headed up to the top of Mount Royal to enjoy their groomed sledding tracks.
Apart from the four well-groomed tracks with snowbanks to help keep you on course, there were also dozens of unofficial sledding hills. What’s the fun in staying on track if you can use one of the more dangerous ones?
The area right next to the official sledding tracks had several trees on a two-tier incline. Two unofficial tracks were made by locals that had a small ramp between the two sloped sections to help get some air time. Apart from flying up a foot in the air, we also had to dodge trees or bail out just before a collision with a lamppost.
“There’s another sledding area with a really steep slope at the other side of the park,” Pascal told me.
Without hesitation, I picked up my purple sled and followed him through the forest trails to the other side of the park. We stayed on the trails for about a kilometer before we reached a crossroads. One side was ploughed and led down the hill via a long winding path, the other side had a sign saying it was closed for winter with a steep drop down a slippery rocky slope.
“We can save time going down this way,” Pascal pointed to the closed path. “It’s a shortcut.”
We left our crampons at his house but decided to follow him anyways trusting his mountaineering experience and instinct. The first third of the way down was pretty easy, the rocks could easily be used as steps and thick branches acted as handrails. It was a strenuous but fun way to go down.
The middle third go slightly more tricky, but still manageable on regular winter boots. A six-inch layer of snow covered the rocks so it was hard to find safe footing. We made good progress by simply sliding down on top of the snow several feet at a time then digging in when we found a sturdy rock to control our speed.
By the time we were two-thirds of the way down, our bottoms were soaked down to our underwear. I couldn’t tell whether my underwear was frozen or if my skin was just completely numb from sliding on the snow. I didn’t really matter though; we were just focused on making our way down what now became a cliff without any safety equipment.
The last third was the most difficult. I could see the foot of the hill just 100 meters down below but the incline has gotten so steep that it was almost a cliff. There was only a very thin layer of snow on this section with heavy tree cover so most of the exposed rock was covered with a slippery layer of ice.
Being no more than five foot four, Pascal leveraged his size and weigh to quickly hop down like a monkey, leaving me stranded.
“Hey, which crack did you step on?” I’d yell down every now and again to try and find my way down.
He’d point to specific gaps between rocks to help me find a path to safety. At one point, I slipped off a narrow root and let go of my sled to grab onto a tree trunk to stop myself from tumbling down. I watched in silence as my purple plastic sled slid down the side of the cliff towards the bottom.
“We’re gonna have to pick that up later,” I laughed nervously.
Eventually, I made it all the way down with some guesswork and a lot of hesitation. Boots on feet, hands still in gloves, and nothing fell out of my pockets.
“We’re not doing that again, ever.” I looked Pascal in the eye and told him.
“We can take the bus on the way back,” he gestured over to the road with his thumb.
I wish we took the bus down.
